


Explosive Decompression

by PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Bomb Voyage, Demo is more than a drunk, Everyone has a dark past, For Freshsalad/camiluna27, M/M, Sometimes you just have to get ridiculous, Spy is more than a bastard, Team cohesion and the chaos to get there, canon characterisation kept, musings of dad!spy too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 19:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10928376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess/pseuds/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess
Summary: Everyone projects an image, something that appeals to, or repels others, depending on their intentions. Remaining cold, aloof and mysterious is difficult when you live on a small base where close proximity to others is unavoidable; still, Spy does his best to remain detached. For his sake, as much as theirs.However, the more he observes the others around him, the more apparent it becomes that Spy is not the only one with a dark past; and it intrigues him into pursuing the Demoman, trying to find out what the Scot hides behind that too-bright smile. Walking into a trap of his own making without hesitation, Spy could say.It was never meant to turn out like this.





	Explosive Decompression

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Freshsalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freshsalad/gifts).



> I... might have randomly written this between 3 and 5am this morning for an international friend (Freshsalad/camiluna27) whose OTP (Bomb Voyage) needs more love.

He hardly dared to breathe, lest it shatter the fragile moment that the universe had spun between them.   
Demo’s expression seemed surprised, stricken, oddly conflicted yet awed, as they stared.

Spy could not seem to wrench his gaze from the man’s piercing eye, the shape of his jaw, his ever-smiling mouth and _those lips_ …   
They were slightly ajar now, as the Scotsman tried to process whatever this was, happening right now between the two mercenaries. So stock-still that Spy immediately felt his heart, previously beating so hard he could have sworn Demo would hear it pounding away in fear; now sink to the pit of his stomach.

 

_They should not have done this._  
It was so utterly unprofessional, to allow someone like himself to imbibe enough to become rather tipsy; not _drunk_ , just… relaxed enough that he might answer a question directly, rather than with his usual level of mystique and subterfuge.

Spies must take in many secrets, and keep them caged between their teeth; for letting them out could prove disastrous. Their job was to ruin people, topple governments, blackmail, coerce, change the world for good or ill depending on who paid your wages… and to let out any of that information could be a crippling blow to your professional occupation.

But to let slip something personal, that was to sign your death warrant. It gave others power that they could, and _would,_ use against you.

Many spies from before, men and women with impeccable abilities that dared to dream of a normal life and settling down, who had confided in others about their pasts… who watched former adversaries hold weapons to their loved ones, or heard the people they trusted sell them out for money, for favours, for praise and promotion.

He would never have thought to allow such a thing to happen. He was above such things, and although he loved a woman once, just enough to foster silent fantasies of raising their son safe from the world and its perils… he had always known they were just that. Dreams. Fantasies. Comforting lies that helped you sleep at night.

Divorce yourself from attachments and emotions, remove all ties to living beings, let yourself feel nothing but satisfaction in your work. Each kill a thrill, every blackmail or topple bureaucracy a sadistic delight… let that fuel your desire to survive. For nothing else was allowed…

He had loved her, once. In a time far removed from the now; and even so, pangs of what once _was_ , what _could have been_ in a different world, radiated through his chest. Especially on difficult nights of loss or hollow victory… in this endless game of war, where life and death held no meaning.

 

And he should have let that be it, be content with a hollow want for something long since out of his reach… and yet, even though he remained detached, curt, calculatingly cold and indifferent to the other mercenaries of RED…  
In an effort of preservation; for himself, for their sakes too, one would surmise.

Even though he tried to be aloof and alone, as suited a Spy… the team wormed their way in. Conflicts were rife in the beginning, and sometimes there were feuds and spats that lasted months between various classes… but for every fight, so too was there interaction, learning, an odd familiarity that settled into the bones. As one would expect when you lived and died alongside one another every single day for years without end.   
Only the scenery changed more frequently than the mercenaries’ attitudes towards one another.

Spy found he could _tolerate_ the stinking bushman’s presence now. Sniper was a man of few words but deeper insights, and was therefore utterly intriguing... if you ignored the whole ‘jarate’ utilisation nonsense. No sane person would collect their urine in jars and throw it on people, as far as Spy was concerned. He would never concede that point, ever.

Medic was eccentric, but wrapped up in Heavy and his birds; always covered in blood and ready to tell a story of his wilder days as a mercenary medico. Snatching bodies and organs for the hell of it, the way he flayed living flesh for revenge… Spy had learned many things from the man, in retrospect. Useful, should he need to… _interrogate someone rather stringently_ in the future.

Heavy seemed dense, until you spoke to him in another language, and Spy had had the chance to polish several of his language skills with that man. A welcome surprise…

He detested Engineer, however. Too friendly, open, everything Spy was not… and the way the man so swiftly adopted the role of paternal figure to both the Pyro and his _so-_ … _the Scout_ , irked him. How dare he?   
Ugh, Americans and their apple-pie idealism. Disgusting, to his sensibilities.

Soldier was a unique man, under the brusque outward persona. To have been so resourceful in hunting nazi scum, even though his country denied him the resources to do so… it had peaked Spy's interest. Surely there was more than to the brusque military man than simply yelling, push-ups at ungodly hours and misquoting Sun Tzu?

 

It had been a fun diversion, when they first arrived on base; going through the others’ files. Everything about them laid bare in red folders filled to the brim with documentation… excepting the Pyro, of course.

That, in particular was an enigma Spy was loathe to solve, as the mask-wearing pyromaniac set his nerves on edge whenever nearby. The BLU firebug had a fondness for burning  him as often as possible… and Spy did not ever see himself becoming best friends with the RED look-a-like. Though he could always feel those hollow mask lenses follow him through a room... and it was always hard to maintain an air of nonchalance, when the threat of immediate immolation was present.   
Engineer, damn him, always told Spy that 'Pyro ain't like that, firebug likes ya, and it ain't like they can hurt you with their flamethrower anyway'. Which was true, but nonetheless, the sound and scent of being engulfed in flames without warning, even ones that were essentially harmless to him... was pure nightmare fodder. 

As for the others... of course, he knew Scout was… was his-...   
Yes. He knew. Telling him, however, was out of the question; their first encounter with one another left Spy feeling that the boy was an abhorrent mistake. A child with a loud mouth, bad attitude and an accent so thick it could choke a man from a street away… how could _this_ be his?

He had been far more severe and unforgiving on that boy, comparatively, in all honesty. Though not so much, of late. Something had changed, in both of the men.  
The brash attitude had mellowed somewhat, now that the brat knew intrinsically that he had a place here on the team, in this odd rag-tag pseudo-family of murderers for hire, and once that was settled, his inferiority complex didn’t act up so frequently. Demanding that Scout bignote himself, be reckless, make so much noise and mess that the whole world had to stop and acknowledge his presence before he could calm down… reassured that he was _seen_. Noticed and wanted, as it were.

Spy knew that was partially his fault.   
No father, seven older brothers and a mother who split her time between parenthood and assassinations? Of course he turned out this way… always desperate for some attention, good or bad. Just wanting the world to know he was here.  
But such knowledge had not shorted out the Frenchman’s disdain of the boy on sight.

However now… they seemed to coexist, neither voicing what they both seemed to know. And if Spy ever found out _which_ teammate told the boy of his paternity, then no god will save them from what he will do…  
Spy had hoped to tell the boy… in a mythical 'one day’ that he would never allow to come, but to be short-changed the chance to do it himself... well, it irked more than angered.  
Indeed, one such altercation and hollow accusation of, “You’re not my dad!” had contributed to this very situation in which he now found himself; just a random argument that morning before battle that even victory could not assuage. There was always a hollow ring following the words as they both heard them echo the falsehood about. Too stubborn to address what must be a whole herd of elephants in the room, by this point. 

They stormed away from one another, fired up and ready to take it out on the BLU team. As always. And not a single member of the team would dare to stand in their way, this day... though doubtless the boy would now be receiving consolation from Engineer by now. But Spy could not fault him, considering to whom he was speaking.

 

Of all the mercenaries, Spy found himself becoming more and more intrigued by the Demolitions man, or 'Demo’. The man merged the scientific and supernatural almost frequently, and his backstory was always fascinating to pretend you weren’t listening to.

And he had a _knowing_ , about him.  
“I’ve got a canny sense for some things, lad.” he’d once said to Scout, who was asking Demo how in the hell he could guess that the _bluer-than-it-had-a-right-to-be_  midday sky was going to be covered in dark, brooding clouds within the next hour or so. He had been correct, actually, it had stormed for several days so severely matches were cancelled until it ceased. The Scot had been insufferably smug all evening; Spy had briefly considered murdering him, but brushed it off as he was in no mood to deal with a reprimand for team conflict. Besides... it was true, the man had a sense for things and this ability was utterly intriguing to the espionage agent.

The knowing...

You could see in his eyes, in the slight tinge of a smile in his upturned lips, when he had seen something others had not yet. It made Demo the prime suspect in Spy’s investigation as to who had told Scout about his father…  
And yet, this preternatural ability was as fascinating to Spy, as it was a curse for Demo.

 

As time passed, the Frenchman found he gravitated to the warmth of Demo’s tone, his welcoming nature and gestures. Slightly confused with himself as to how he could stand cloaked and simply watch the man tinker with his weaponry for hours, in an almost trance-like tranquillity… relaxing and perturbing simultaneously.  
Of course, for his gentle points; the man was also very much a lit powder-keg. Not unlike the bombs he unleashed on the BLUs every weekday, during matches.

His preternatural ability to sense the unspoken, the strange things that happened in his life before RED and all the things he never spoke about, like his family, and the things you could see in the haunted shadows of his eyes… if you knew to look.  
Those things were like a beacon to Spy; he was a curious person, as Spies often tend to be, and he could not help but build rapport in hopes of unlocking this mystery.

 

Demo drank. It was a huge joke to some, to make out that he did nothing but imbibe 'scrumpy’ all the time. Though Spy knew different. He observed, he knew, he saw.  
There was a difference between celebratory drunk Demo, and social drinker Demo; and they were both far removed from the near-catatonic, slurring drunk Demo became when he thought no one could see, when whatever haunted him became too much.

It was… far too close to home for comfort.

 

Spy had been there, more than once in the past. Only, he had switched to cigarettes and wine, over… what he had once chosen to drown the memories in, instead, in times long since past.   
It didn’t work for long, especially not if you had to put up a facade the whole time as well. Alcohols, chemicals... they clouded the thoughts, but could not remove them. Eventually you accepted the past as it was, horrors intact; or you broke, became beyond repair, by your own hand. And Spy was too stubborn to go down without a fight; he rather hoped Demo was too. Though perhaps he needed a push, a reminder that this darkness need not be traversed alone... as someone had once done for Spy.

For, although he dared not voice even the vaguest notion of sentimentality… Spy had felt disinclined to allow Demo to take that ruinous path. Not while it could be prevented.

 

Spy was a people-person; it was his trade, refined manners and a natural charm allowed for it to be so. Gaining Demo’s trust, however, had felt… more challenging than he was used to.  
The man could sense someone being disingenuous from across the room, so Spy had to step lightly, work carefully, gradually working up to interactions. Or perhaps, that had been the original plan... but of course the Scot had to go and ruin it by being, well, himself. Meticulous planning and human beings do not often co-exist harmoniously, after all.

 

It began, not with a conversation, but the end of one. Spy happened upon drunken Demo, sorrowful and slouching, one night in the common room; something about the day had triggered a memory for him, and he’d been morose all evening. At least, under the fake smile he’d pasted on for the other mercenaries, who seemed to have only the slightest of inklings that something was amiss.

They had been a team for nearly a year, by now. Such a long time, and as yet many of the classes were all but strangers to one another. Or rather, like roommates that went to all the same classes, but somehow managed to miss each other in leisure time; except on rare occurrences where they sought out others. Each class had interacted, and some had stronger bonds than others, but cohesion was a distant dream as of yet. It would take several more months, at the very least, despite the best efforts of the ever-hospitable Engineer and his perpetual barbecue get-togethers.

However, time would tell.

 

Spy saw Demo properly in that moment, surmised the situation, and told the man straight up, that Spy was going to put him to bed. He was a stinking mess, but that would be the problem of whichever hapless Mann Co. laundry service dealt with their blood-stained clothing and used bedding. Spy didn’t care for the details…

In truth, he did. And knew them well.   
A subsidiary company, part of a chain of laundering services, called 'Cooee Cleaners’ took their soiled attire four times a fortnight and returned it within six hours. Spy knew when, where and how they did so; the name of each person involved, their addresses, and what contracts each of the delivery persons had signed in order to be paid. He had also read the contracts thoroughly, noting the clauses that must maintain an unbreached status to avoid... being disposed of via a pink slip and Miss Pauling’s pistol.

He rather liked the details, actually. It was his nature.

 

However, the situation had resolved with the Demolitions expert tucked in bed sans his boots; and Spy aware that he now had an inroads with the man. Whether the Scot recalled the exact events of the night before, or not.

Indeed he did, given the anxiety-tinged glances Demo probably assumed he was covertly throwing at Spy, all throughout breakfast. Trying to gauge whether the night before was real, or if Spy had a good, helpful twin who altruistically tried to ruin the Frenchman’s sinister mystique by helping drunken teammates navigate their way to a safe bed.

 

He found himself cornered, after battle that day, by the concerned and weary man.   
Demo was off his game that day, somewhat; having been blown through respawn a few dozen times in the first five minutes of battle, and things not improving from there on in.

“Look, whatever I said tae ye, could ye forget it?” he’d asked, tone laden with anxiety. It was so out of character, Spy nearly forgot to paste a smug look on his face.

“Oh?” he’d replied, “But I do so love getting new information on my teammates…”

But the normal deflection seemed not to have worked, as usual. Demo had gained that _look_ , the one he associated with his ' _canny feeling_ ’, and the expression went from concerned to pensive in a heartbeat.

“Aye…” he finally responds, “That ye do, Laddie. Well, ye’d best come along with me then, so we can talk about it… I dinnae want ye dogging my every step to find out why I drink. And I think we both know ye will…”

Spy had nodded. He was discrete, but when something interesting strayed across his path, Spy would chase it to the end of the line…

 

And so, Demo had taken them to his lab. Fidgeting, tinkering, moving pieces about as if the tactile task somehow helped. Perhaps it did.   
Spy would often play with his balisong, flicking it open and shut when he was deep in thought. And he had noticed… Scout tended to always do something with his hands when talking, or thinking; it was an invisible thread between them that he found highly amusing and yet, oddly endearing.

Finally… Demo had sighed, sagging in his chair, and gestured for the Frenchman to sit on the chair adjacent the explosive expert. He fumbled for the right starting point for a moment, but finally began… at the beginning, and did not stop until long into the early hours of the night.

Spy was astounded, surprised, sceptical, and slightly off-kilter by this sudden torrent of volunteered information. Certainly, there was the human desire to reciprocate, a story for a story, that he tamped down.   
A question, as to when he’d earned enough trust from the man to warrant such a telling; Demo was as stubborn as Scout in many ways, and could have easily fobbed of Spy’s persistent inquiries if he wanted.

And there was, too, an unease roiling in the pit of his stomach at the conclusion of their one-sided conversation.  Spy would never have revealed so much, such personal information; and now he knew everything in intricate detail, about Demo… no, _Tavish DeGroot_ , before him. Things that could not be found on paper, in dossiers or documents. Therefore they may be the only two alive to know them, and it was... as astounding as it was concerning, to be burdened with such information.

 

Knowing things made you dangerous.   
Or rather, knowing things about governments, about the secrets of high ranking officials… made you merely dangerous. But knowing details about the people around you, personal information, made you a direct threat to them. What if it was tortured out of you?

Of course, Spy had doubted foreign agencies would be interested in the time eight-year-old Tavish got detention for blowing up the science lab at school using a papeir mache volcano, but you never knew these days. Torture had evolved, and Spy had played no small hand in its evolution... any little scrap of information may be worth a few hours interrogation. Depended on how desperate the people who had captured you were.

Still, it had changed the dynamics.

 

He knew so much of Demo, of Tavish DeGroot, and the mystical, mathemagical world he came from… and the man knew practically nothing of him. Certainly, Spy had weasled such information out of wooed socialites, high ranking officials and whomsoever else he had to seduce or coerce in order to complete his mission… but that was different.

Demo had laughed, when he’d stopped talking. “Ye don’t need to tell me anything you’re not ready to, Spook… ain’t the way you lot do things, is it? Spies?”

He’d felt his lip curl up in amusement as he’d deadpanned, “Non, monsieur DeGroot.” before bidding the man goodnight, and cloaking. Stealing away to his own bed, to compartmentalise.

 

And it had been the knowing that drew him back again and again. Demo had lived a life so different, yet so full of the strange and indescribable, that it was like an odd reflection of Spy’s own.  
He’d even questioned if the interest was a sign of inherent narcissism, at one point. However, Spy eventually dismissed the theory, the more he started to notice things about the other man… dangerous things.

The light in his eye when a new idea struck, the pride in his tone when congratulating a teammate on a kill or capture, the vengeful angel he became when the same were being mercilessly dominated in battle…

The grace of those rough, scarred hands. How they gently coaxed volatile materials into harmonic alignment, ready to be employed in battle; yet those same hands could knock a man’s head clean off his shoulders when necessary. The duality was…  

_Well, Spy never let himself linger on the nature of those hands for long enough to choose a word for the feeling it gave_.  Emotions were problematic, at best, and it did no one any good to dwell on phantom feelings.

 

Still, _he noticed._  
Little things, words, cadence, interactions, moods. Spy could tell by the tightness around Demo’s eyes if he was caught in dark thoughts; in the same way he knew that, if Medic was smiling brightly, someone was about to play operation with him. Willingly or otherwise.

Things built.

From Spy watching the man work uncloaked, in silence… to simply visiting, and listening to anecdotes, stories, odd ideas and some accusations, it must be said.

 

“You ever going to tell him?” Demo had startled Spy with, not so many days ago. “The lad?”

“He knows.” Spy monotones, recovering swiftly.

“Big difference between knowing something, and having it said aloud, having it confirmed. Not to push ye, but it… might make a difference to both of ye.” Demo pressed, and then let it be, when Spy went silent. Eventually switching to a different topic altogether, as if the conversation before had never been.

However, it left Spy wondering what else the man could be picking up on. Of course Demo would have noticed the similarities, the inherent characteristics Scout and Spy both denied were even vaguely similar to one another’s. Tavish just tended to know these things… not to say he was not a highly intelligent man who could work it out if he wanted to, but his intuition could trump high-ranking think-tanks the world over, if he was so inclined.

And if the man had noticed, in what was not spoken, that Scout was his son… what else had he gleaned from Spy?

 

Then, like an arrow to the heart he suddenly wondered if it really was that terrible to have someone know certain personal information about him. If it was truly so horrifying a concept, when he thought about it…

And that was more startling than anything else that had occurred. The last time Spy had even considered such a thing was-… well… _Her_.  
But that was because he lo-… oh, _oh no_.

It was four am on a rainy Thursday night, and he had made a realisation that could shatter his nonchalant facade if it should get out or be acted upon openly. No, Spy could allow nothing of the sort… he would simply, ignore it.

Like always. Such was was the life of an espionage agent.   
And so, resolved, the man had resolutely fallen asleep thinking of nothing, save how he would backstab the BLU Sniper the following day… in retribution for all the many, many impeccable suits lost to jarate attacks.

 

Of course, the complication came in the form of Demo’s friendly offer to 'have a drink’. Usually, such invitations were a formality, underhandedly meaning that Spy was free to drop by the workshop later on, or even Demo’s room, and talk. As he had a habit of doing after battle, these days… but today most likely had more to do with the fight Spy had had with Scout over breakfast.

Outwardly, he had raised an eyebrow, as if questioning Demo's intentions to be friendly. Scout had laughed, loudly and derisively, for he was clearly still mad about their earlier altercation; before making a rather crude joke about Spy being uptight, and how Demo would need _far_ more alcohol than was available on the base to get 'the bastard' to 'hang out’, much less 'relax’. Both the older men suppressed their amusement at that statement. But when the siren went off to leave spawn, and Scout had disappeared into the wind as he often did, Spy met Demo’s eyes… and nodded, before cloaking.

He would be there.

 

And so he was.   
Triumphant, the team had crowed and delighted in their victory through dinner and into the night. Spy had personally killed his rival four out of five times prior to being taken down by the BLU Soldier, so he was in high spirits and open to merriment.

“There you are, thought ye’d bloody forgot!” Demo greets, swinging open the door of the workshop and gesturing to the armchair Spy had mysteriously gotten hold of and had placed in the room for his visitations. _He had contacts all over the world_ , he’d assured the confused explosive expert when it was delivered, _and a comfortable seat was nothing compared to what he could get with a single phonecall to the right people_.

Perhaps it was the merriment, a break in the week’s losing streak, or it could be simply that he had started to trust in the Demolitions expert… but, Spy felt quite relaxed tonight. Did not even think to guard his thoughts, filter his words, or wonder where the first two glasses of wine had gone…

Sipping champagne or a good vintage wine during an evening by the fire, or whilst seducing a target was one thing… a moderated act, false sips, all compliments and distractions as the other starts to let slip the secrets you seek. This… this was another beast entirely. Unwise... and yet...

 

Spy could feel the edges of the world become a little softer, somewhat fuzzier and kinder than they’d been in years. It flagged a warning with his survival instincts, but whatever alarm it caused was muted at best, and tamped down upon at the persistent thought that Demo was not a threat.

Indeed, the man was the opposite, especially on the field. How many times had a stickybomb trap saved the Spy, recently? BLU were getting uncannily good at spotting disguised spies, and it meant he tended to die a lot more frequently…

Wait…

He reeled a little, mentally repeating his slightly convoluted chain of thought.   
_Demo was not a threat_?  
Demo was not a threat.

Alright, that was easily settled.

 

Actually, Demo was looking at him in concern. Head cocked slightly to the side, and brow furrowed; looking at Spy, like he was a bomb with a misaligned screw somewhere in the design that he was trying to locate.

“Uh, when was the last time ye got more than a wee bit buzzed from your fancy grape juice, Spook?” Tavish asks, somewhat bluntly.

Spy opens his mouth to reply, but an ugly snort of laughter escapes instead. “ _Fancy grape juice?!_  Mon cheri, I will 'ave you know that some of my wine collection are older than everyone on this team combined!”

“…not a point in their favour, to be honest, lad. Old stuff tends to go off, if ye havenae noticed…” Demo teases, plain on his smirking face.

“Wine ages gracefully, Demo… the older it gets, the more potent and delectable. Very few humans can say the same of themselves…” Spy retorts, laying it on thick at the end to sound mysterious and wise, even though some part of his mind was still stuck on how funny ' _fancy grape juice_ ’ was as a wine descriptor.

“If ye say so…” Demo rolls his eye, reaching for his bottle instead. His hand pauses on the cusp of grasping it as a thought strikes, eye narrowing to a considering squint. “Oi, ye weren’t taking a dig at me spare tire with the 'aging gracefully' comment, were ye? Cause I’ll have ye know… I’ve still got enough muscle to toss ye like a lanky French javelin across  the battlefield if ye’re feeling cheeky…”

Spy nearly spat his mouthful of red wine across the room. “ _Non_. My intention was complimentary, I assure you… I 'ave only known few humans to grow steadily more attractive as the years past. We are supposed to decay, and yet, beauty persists in the most unlikely of places…” There was a pause as he thought about it. “You should 'ave seen Scout’s mother when we met, nearly twenty-seven years ago now, I did not even know a word to describe her beauty… and it infuriates me more with every growing year. She is a rare creature indeed.”

 

“Och, don’t sell yeself short, laddie, I bet you’re not that bad off under that mask of yours…” Demo responds, skipping casually over the fact Spy just revealed something incredibly personal  about himself for no real reason.

“ _Wouldn’t you like to know_?” Spy teases, automatically, before covering his own mouth in horror. “I think I 'ave had more to _thought_ than I _drink_ …”

It was too late, Demo was already in hysterics, and the mis-worded sentence only added to his amusement at the situation.

 

“I think ye have, Spook, can’t even get your sentences the right way 'round, can ye?” the Scotsman beams, mirthful tears visible in his eye as he gazes across affectionately at the espionage agent. There was no judgement, just two people having fun, really. So Spy didn't take offence, though he normally would have politely cursed seven generations of anyone else's family out in French by now, for daring insinuate such things.

“Perhaps…” Spy relents, “Or maybe I just 'ave not thought to let someone else in for a long time… and the wine 'elps somewhat.”

Which immediately stifles Demo’s laughter. An unintended side-effect of the gravity of Spy’s statement.

Tactfully, he says, “Aye, drink’ll do that to ye… loosen tongues and let secrets slide on out. I’d warrant ye have quite a few of those rattling around in your head, eh?”

Spy’s lip curls up in amusement. “Oh, _oui,_ mon ch-… _amie_. But if I told you… I would 'ave to kill you and all that dreary nonsense. Grave digging at this hour is such a chore... I’d much prefer your company, over your corpse. Slightly more conversational, I would warrant.”

 

Demo pounces on the statement like a cat on string. “Oh, would ye now, Spook? Thought ye couldn’t stand me to start with… now I get front-row seats to your little secret-spilling show, and I wouldnae miss it for the world.”

“It is... unfortunate, that my occupation requires such secrecy, Tavish, but… it is as it is.” Spy returns, sombrely. Like the words were bitter in his mouth, and he wanted rid of them. “There is much I can never say… even to those I care for deeply, for their continued safety I must not exist to them. Silence is a far sharper knife than any argument can ever be… even if both parties understand the logic of why.”

Demo swirled the bottle, watching the liquid slosh about; a tiny alcoholic ocean thrown mercilessly against the green glass sides, as he mulled over the statement. It wasn’t unexpected, but Spy was not one to make such statements lightly; sober or blackout drunk.

“And that is why Scout did not 'ave a father in his life, Demo. Why I had to let his darling mother, _mon cheri_ , go before we got too tangled in emotions to do so. Before they became targets for the things I know, have done, will do… espionage is not at all as exciting as those silly Spy films make it seem. The pretty girls and boys you seduce will be followed by the old, the ugly and the cruel; some you kill, others you must keep alive. It all depends on the mission, and you feel nothing for any of them… you cannot, or it will ruin what you are. Your edge.”

Demo does not interject as Spy pauses for breath, for reflection. Just nods along, having seen this storm cloud building from the moment the other man picked up the second glass of wine.

“If you are detached, tell noone anything… learn no secrets but those you are sent to find, then you will hurt no one when retribution finds you.” Spy explains, as best he can. “There are few I can tell about anything, about my life and what I have seen, done, learned, lost… it puts them in danger.  _Mon cheri_ understood, she has been there herself but found a way to change her fate… a way I cannot follow. So we parted... amicably, if regretfully. And even here, to protect even that _happy-go-lucky fool_ the Engineer, I cannot speak to anyone. But you,” he jabs a finger at Demo, “you 'ave a way of making people want to tell you things.”

For a split-second, Demo wrinkles his nose in offence, but seemingly decides to let it go. Spy is venting, and to be fair he does have that effect on people. That sense of his saw people confess odd things to him all the time… he couldn’t turn it off, though.

 

“You just… told me _all about yourself_ , everything! And I couldn’t stop myself from listening… I should 'ave, to keep you safe, but your voice was-…” Spy coughs, “I mean to say, the tale was fascinating in no uncertain terms.”

“Oh sure, just the tale and not the handsome devil telling it to ye, gotcha.” Demo beams, giving an exaggerated wink in the drunken Spy’s direction.

It earned him a frustrated scowl.   
“Exactly!” shouts Spy, tossing his hands up haphazardly and nearly slopping wine all over the place.

That pulls the Scot up short.  
“Ye what now?” he probes, trying to clarify if he’s drunk too much, or Spy has.

“You… are a very _aesthetic-_ … _aestheti-_ …. _beautiful man,_ Tavish. We both know this, do not deny it; I have seen many people, conventionally attractive and decidedly not, in my life… and you are one of those awful humans that ages gracefully like wine. And you can captivate with your personality, your stories are exciting and informative, your hands are-… I mean, your expressions are always fluid and you are a fascinating creature to behold.”

Spy pauses, staring at his almost-empty wine glass in accusation.

“You have no idea how much I want to tell people things, but most of all you, you attractive idiot of a man… with your friendship, and your physique and your-… your-…” he stammers off, looking for a word, only to suddenly freeze.

The gravity of his words seemed to sink in, for the first time that night, and Spy’s heart begins to race. Fight or flight is taking over; restless energy floods his body, demanding the espionage agent cloak and retreat. But he cannot.  
Everything in the room is trapped in this odd, ethereal moment where not even air seems to exist. He loathes how saccharine it feels, how cliche… and yet, what other descriptors are there?

It was like being paralysed in amber, as his eyes latched onto Demo’s face; saw the shock there, and ascribed it to be negative of meaning, in his mind. Demo was staring back, a feature-length film of emotions and micro-expressions whirring across his features too fast for Spy’s less-than-sober mind to keep up with.

 

Spy couldn’t think of anything to say to defuse the situation, every elongated moment of silence making his heart sink further into his stomach. He couldn’t quite find the energy to make his hand stop reaching for the cloaking watch, though…   
Rigorously ignoring the thought that, even if he got away now, there was always tomorrow, or the next… when they would be face to face.

Of course he had had people rebuke his attempts at seduction, and even a few his active affections… but this was inherently different. Demo wasn’t saying anything, doing anything… he was just still. It was eerie.

 

“ _Don’t_.”

The words snaps him out of the elongated scene, as does the warm hand caught fast around his wrist, effectively blocking out the watch. Demo’s grip could easily release, if Spy gave even the slightest indication he was going to cloak and leave anyway.

Spy stays his hand, feeling very much the foolish deer in headlights; something he hasn’t felt in… so long, he almost forgot what it was like to be vulnerable. To be like this, open to rejection, without his usual wall of cynicism and apathy blocking it out. He must have had too much to drink. It happened, sometimes things just come out when inhibitions are lowered…

 

“It’s… uh, well…” Demo stammers, clearly attempting to be the diplomatic one here since Spy’s normal suave tact is utterly failing him.

“You do not 'ave to respond,” Spy manages. “And you need not give sympathy or express sentiment… I made a mistake, in admitting something personal, and we can both forget it.”

“Oh, can we now?” Demo queries, raising an eyebrow with a strange quality to his tone. “Just go back to the way things are, even though I know?”

Spy nods, looking slightly over the other’s left shoulder, expression tight and guarded once more.  
“If that is what you wish.”

 

“Well,” says Demo, dropping Spy’s wrist and crossing his arms. “And what if I don’t bloody want to, eh?”

“That is… also your choice.” Spy interjects, voice monotonous and yet somehow defensive.

Demo wags a finger at him, “I wasnae finished talking laddie. Perhaps, I dinnae want to forget about the fact the bloke I’ve been trying to woo for the last six bloody months has finally worked out he likes me back under all that emotional repression. What if I want to act on that, instead, hey?”

Spy nearly falls over, but recovers as swiftly as he can. “Would you… care to repeat that, _mon amie_?”

Demo glares at him. “You’re bloody right I do care to, and what’s this 'my friend’ business about, Spook?  You’ve been accidentally calling me ' _mon cheri_ ’ for months, had to ask Heavy what it meant and he nearly choked on his sandvich telling me… 'specially since he worked out it was you saying it.”

 

That vivid mental image alone shatters the tension in the room as both occupants laugh aloud.

“Ah, but seriously boyo… you’re not all that subtle after a wee bit of time living with the same people. Get to know your eccentricities… and you’re as messed up as _Scoot_ is, with your emotions. But if I’d known all it’d take was some fancy grape juice to get you to admit you were hankering for all this…” He gestures to all of him in a sweeping motion that nearly sends the emotionally-exhausted Frenchman into hysterics again. “I would have bloody bought you a tank full ages ago… save all this pining and self-realisation nonsense. Ye looked like I was gonnae kill ye just before, when you blurted it out…” Demo adds, thoughtfully.

 

Trying to piece everything back together mentally, Spy clears his throat. “You never know how people will react, these days, and you are good with explosives…”

“Good? _I’m brilliant_ , _Spook_! And if ye want, I can show you I’m pretty good at another type of banging…” He accompanies the statement with a lewd grin that lightens the mood and finally dissipates the last shred of tension from the room.

Spy groans and drops his face into his hands. “Why am I attracted to you again?”

“Uh, dunno, ye didn’t finish your long litany of the bits of me you like best… got to the hands and ye stopped, didn’t even get to my perky _ar-_ …”

This time Spy covers Demo’s mouth.   
“Finish that sentence and I will leave you here alone…” he sighs dramatically, “How will I ever take you in public like this?”

Demo grins and mumbles something. Spy moves his hand to hear him better.

“I said, I can behave if I want to… in public, that is. Probably at one of those upper-class, posh restaurants you like too… the ones with fourteen spoons and a separate menu just for expensive old fancy grape juice…”

 

Some part of Spy despaired at that phrase, but it was subsumed by the odd surge of amusement he felt at the casual way the conversation was flowing positively between them. Gently eroding the spiky emotional chaos of a few moments earlier.

“Please… do not ever use that phrase again, especially in public.” he asks, tone slightly strained.

And Demo laughs back. “Anything for you, _Spook._ Uh, actually…”

There it is, Spy had been waiting for the question.

 

“…if we adopt Scout, do you want to be _Dad,_ or _Daddy_?” Demo asks, tone entirely innocent, and shiteating grin clearly stating he was enjoying the way Spy suddenly lost the last shreds of composure.

Alright that was decidedly NOT the question he had been anticipating. Spy let out his horrifying laugh, which he personally detested; sometimes he snorted or giggled oddly, and he hated it.

Demo pokes him in the cheek. “Cute laugh you got there Spook…”

“Oh shut up, Demo…” Spy finally calms down enough to say, waving off the other. “That was not what I thought you were going to ask, _mon cheri_ …”

“No, but your face was _bloody funny_ when I did. Or I think it is… hard to tell with-… _nevermind_.” Demo smiles, suddenly realising that the base is very quiet and they’re quite close together.

“No, do ask your question, if you have an actual one that is…” Spy invites, hands busily sliding under the mask hem. Meticulous in their removal.

“Well, and ye dinnae have to give me an answer now if ye wanna keep the whole secret identity thing going for a wee bit longer but… you know my name…” Demo leads.

“Indeed, Tavish, _mon cheri_.” Spy smirks back, sans mask.

 

Demo nearly chokes at the sudden revelation, at how closely he had imagined it, based on mental mapping of the features beneath the identity-concealing mask. He clears his throat when Spy raises an eyebrow in query as to why he’d paused.

“Well, ye know my name… and I was kind of wondering if it’d be okay to know yours?” Demo asks, expression hopeful but trying not to be.

There it was.

Spy had been waiting.

 

He leans in quite close.  
  
“Of course, _mon cheri_ … my name is,” he leaned in to whisper hotly into the Scotsman’s ear, delighting in the way the man shuddered as the imparted syllables registered, before pulling back with a killer grin. “And I would advise you not forget it… you will be screaming it later tonight…”

Then, in the space of a heartbeat… there’s a kiss on his lips, something in his hand, and Spy has disappeared.

 

Demo clutches tightly at the mask, holding onto the physical reminder that everything that just happened was not just an elaborate fantasy… and beams through tingling lips.

_This was going to be an adventure._

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, the first technical shipping fic for TF2... all attempts to keep the mercs in canon characterisation parameters were taken, but to be fair, it was pretty early and I typed it all out in Chat. So it is not my best, and frustrates me a little, but I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I still stand by my statement that Demo/Spy could easily be called, 'Bomblette du Frommage'... for no other reason than it's hilarious.


End file.
